


Two Times Harry Heart Was Not In Love (And One Time That He Was)

by Estel



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estel/pseuds/Estel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A first person account of three of Harry Heart's relationships. Introspection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Times Harry Heart Was Not In Love (And One Time That He Was)

There are few times in my life that I would consider myself a romantic. Romantic sentiments call to mind effusive declarations of love and brash behavior.

In my early days with Kingsman, I met a shop girl. She was quite taken by my suit and gentlemanly demeanor. I was enamored with her passion for classic British race cars. It was wonderful to have someone to share something with outside of my busy professional life. I had not yet settled into the life that would become so familiar to me. With her, I knew too quickly that she could have had any face or name. It was not her, but rather company that I was needing.

When the petrol burned off, she realized too harshly what I already knew. When she was gone, it was all too easy to race on without her.

I once met a French woman who, in every way I could discover, was my match. We were a three month long stalemate of chess. Every advantage I could gain, she found a clever way to evade. I would rise once more and on we went. It was dizzying, and for a young man, few things are more alluring.

There were no roses or candlelit dinners for us. In the end, we were not a romance; simply a sparring match that didn’t stop when we dimmed the lights.

Then there was a woman who I only had the fortune of knowing for an instant. I was an uninvited guest to a gala in Germany. In a whole room of strangers, our eyes locked and I understood for a moment what turned poets to their craft. We shared one dance and a few stolen glances, but the infatuation lingered far longer than thoughts of the shop girl or the French woman ever would.

At times solitude is a bitter pill to swallow, and in the business of secrets and security, solitude is standard-issue. But that one night as a stowaway to a stranger’s life unveiled to me the tick that can turn the staunchest of cynics into romantics.


End file.
